


The Centre of the Wheel

by Hedge_witch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Arson, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Cigarettes, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-War, Teaching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:09:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedge_witch/pseuds/Hedge_witch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1947 and Sebastian Moran, being slightly short of funds, is compelled to have recourse to the traditional option for those with a respectable degree and a distinguished military record, that of teaching in a minor public school. He is expecting to be bored out of his mind, but finds himself fascinated by one of his colleagues, Dr James Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story is an allusion to Evelyn Waugh’s 'Decline and Fall'. This story isn't based on this novel but it is slightly influenced by it. The setting of the story, immediately after WWII, is halfway between the original ACD canon and the modern BBC series and my interpretation of the characters of Moriarty and Moran is similarly pitched halfway between the two.
> 
> This fic is completed as a first-draft so, barring natural disasters, bouts of illness or a visitation from OFSTED I should be updating it on a twice-weekly basis.

“But I don't know a word of German, I've had no experience, I've got no testimonials, and I can't play cricket.'  
'It doesn't do to be too modest,' said Mr Levy. 'It's wonderful what one can teach when one tries.”  
― Evelyn Waugh, Decline and Fall

August 3rd 1947

‘Please come in Captain Moran, and take a seat,’ the Headmaster took the proffered teacup from his housekeeper and smiled thinly at the man on the other side of his desk. 

‘I’m not sure I can lay claim to that title anymore,’ said the younger man, taking his cup with a disarming smile. ‘I left the army in 45.’

‘Oh quite,’ the Headmaster’s smile widened as he felt himself on firmer ground, ‘but I’d advise you to keep it up, it gives one a certain authority over the boys.’ He glanced down at the papers before him, ‘especially as they awarded you the France and Germany Star, very commendable indeed.’ 

‘Well it was either that or give me a dishonourable discharge,’ Sebastian thought and smiled wider to prevent himself from sneering at the Headmaster’s nod of approval. He took a careful sip of the insipid tea, listening with half an ear to the self-important old man while glancing carefully over his new surroundings. The headmaster’s study had the same paraphernalia of authority that Sebastian had seen in when pulled up in front of tutors and superior officers; the wide oak desk, the shelves filled with mouldering leather-bound books and the decanter of scotch for the favoured few. Overall it wasn’t an impressive version of it’s species, the academic gown on the door was dusty and moth-eaten, there was a pervasive smell of damp tweed, and the fire didn’t burn brightly enough to keep out the unseasonable greyness and chill brought on by the rain.

He sharpened his attention once more as the Headmaster moved past the flannel and on to the particulars, Sebastian’s responsibilities as History Master, boarding duties with the fourth and fifth forms and the necessity of doing something about a sad falling off in discipline among the latter.

‘But I’m sure you’ll soon whip them into shape,’ he smiled at Sebastian, positively genial now. ‘I must say we’re glad to have found you so quickly after Brinkley’s sad accident. At one point I thought I might have to teach them in the coming term, which wouldn’t be quite right, because in my day I read Greats. But I think you’ll find it comfortable here Moran, it’s a bit out of the way, but there are some good sorts among the staff, a couple of other Oxford men and a few chaps from Cambridge.’ His smile turned rather self-satisfied, ‘we’re rather proud that we number so many among the staff.’ 

‘You mean you’ve got the dregs,’ Sebastian thought, ‘the desperate and disappointed ones who never imagined taking a job like this, but who, on reflection, have decided that this is all they’re going to get. Or in the best cases, the ones who are in between the acts of their lives, the people who are biding their time until something better comes along, like me.’ 

But this was as good a place as any to wait, so he smiled and shook the Headmaster’s hand, and kept up his end in the exchange of small-talk as they waited for the Matron to come and take Sebastian to his rooms. 

***

‘The door’s a little stiff on the hinges,’ Mrs Franklin said, applying a forceful elbow to the warped wood of the door to Sebastian’s rooms, ‘but I don’t suppose it’ll give you much bother’. 

‘No,’ Sebastian replied, scanning the room before him. The sight-lines were decent, he was high enough that he could get a clear view of most of the grounds. He’d have to stick his head out of the window to get a sight on the main gates, which was irritating, but at least he wasn’t facing into the inner courtyard. That would’ve driven him insane. 

‘This’ll do nicely,’ he said, half to himself, but Mrs Franklin snorted in reply.

‘You haven’t seen the whole set yet.’ 

He shrugged, ‘I’m not fussy.’ 

She gave him a measuring look, ‘no, and I’ll bet you never were,’ she sniffed, ‘and here I was hoping you’d have kept neat habits on from the army. It’s not my job to keep your rooms in order so it’s no skin off my nose, but there are some among the staff here whose habits are decidedly disorderly!’ 

Sebastian grinned, ‘well I’ll not trouble your peace of mind Matron, but I warn you I wasn’t a byword in the regiment for my tidiness.’ He decided not to trouble the old lady with the things he had been a byword for, though he imagined her reaction would be an amusing one. 

‘No, well when war drags on there’s not much that can be kept clean.’ Mrs Franklin moved over to where the rain was still drumming against the window, her voice growing softer with memory, ‘I was a nurse, in the Great War; The First War, as I suppose we must call it now, and we were great ones for starch at first, but once a couple of years have gone by and you’ve scrubbed blood out of your apron a few times it stops mattering as much.’ 

‘Hmm,’ Sebastian replied, thinking of an afternoon spent cleaning the remnants of some soldier; friend or foe he was not sure, from between the treads of his boots, and how he’d become almost hysterical with laughter over the pointlessness of it. ‘This place was a military hospital wasn’t it?’ He asked, ‘I’ll bet there’s more than a few bloodstains on the walls here that haven’t been scrubbed quite clean.’ 

‘And don’t we know it!’ Mrs Franklin exclaimed, her voice brisk once more, ‘the little ghouls won’t stop searching for them, I remember the sensation in the fifth form when one of them found an old bit of shrapnel, must have been chucked aside during surgery, the little beggars wouldn’t stop talking about it for weeks!’

Sebastian smiled; as he knew he was expected to, and privately wondered what purpose that piece of shrapnel had been put to before it had been revealed to Matron.  
‘Well it’ll be nice to have a bit more life about the place Captain Moran. As you’ll see, there’s the usual amenities, a bath and a small stove for coffee, but you’ll take most of your meals down in the refectory, the Headmaster’s rather particular about that.’ She gave him a severe look, obviously this had been a bone of contention in the past, and Sebastian, his patience for company running thin, agreed mildly and saw her out with some relief. 

The room was growing dark, but Sebastian lit a cigarette instead of the lamp, pivoted one of the armchairs so that it faced the window and slouched into it. He glanced at the time, and with the confidence of a man who had long brought his body’s rhythms under his control, saw that he had a couple of hours to sleep before he would have to face the refectory. He took a last appreciative drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out on the rather pathetic aspidistra that sat on the side-table and fell almost instantly into sleep. 

***

It was cloudy night and; this far from the camp, the only lights were the sickly gleam of the torch he had swaddled in his pocket and the glowing end of his cigarette. Both were risks of course, but they’d swept the area more thoroughly than usual before settling for the night. They were in Germany now, after all, the heart of darkness, but Seb couldn’t see a damn thing that would set it apart from the other blasted landscapes he’d trudged through. Still, there was no need to be reckless, so he pointed the torch carefully downwards as he checked the path ahead for unpleasant surprises.

He stopped, watching as the torchlight slid over the velvet blackness of water. It was probably nothing more than a dirty puddle, but Seb was struck by its purity. It held a more intense blackness than the sky, interrupted only by the reflected orange gleam of his cigarette-end, which glared up at him as though it were a fire, long-banked, that might at any moment break forth again. Seb turned off his torch and stood there for a long time, watching that small point of light until there was no choice but to flick it into the mud and turn away. 

***

Sebastian woke, not with a start, but decidedly, his eyes blinking slowly open and then staying that way. The room faced east, so it was completely dark by now, so Sebastian turned on a few lights and considered his two suitcases, deciding that he’d unpack them later on. He brushed down his suit, removing the creases that had crept in while he slumbered and swept back his hair before made his way down the worn wooden stairs, following the smell of institutional cooking towards the refectory. 

‘Ah Captain Moran,’ the Headmaster said as he made his way to the dias that held the staff table, which presided over a hall filled with long empty benches, waiting for the students to return. ‘Allow me to introduce you to the staff who have remained here over the summer. This,’ he gestured to Sebastian and addressed the rest of the staff, ‘is Captain Moran, he’s here to replace poor Brinkley as History Master. You’ve already met Matron haven’t you Moran?’ 

Sebastian fought the urge to roll his eyes, contenting himself with a simple nod. 

‘This,’ the Headmaster gestured to a stocky, red-haired man at his right, 'is Simmons, our Games Master, and this,’ he gestured over to a young, rather handsome blonde man sitting next to Mrs Franklin, is Halford, he’s the English Master.’

‘Arthur please,’ the man said, smiling and leaning over to shake Sebastian’s hand. 

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow to let the assembled staff know what he thought of that, but he continued nonetheless, pointing over to the only other woman besides Mrs Franklin at the table. ‘This is Madame Bloch, who is our French Mistress,’ he smiled rather unpleasantly as he said it, glancing slyly over at Simmons, and Sebastian saw the woman sneer around her cigarette while their attention was elsewhere. He made a mental note of her as someone it might be worth talking to later. 

‘And there should be one other,’ the Headmaster frowned, and then his face cleared as a side-door that opened directly onto the dias opened to admit one other man, who registered as slight and dark-haired but little else. 

‘Ah Dr Moriarty, were you caught up in your equations again?’ The headmaster said with false joviality. ‘You’ve arrived just in time to meet Captain Moran, he’s to take on History now Brinkley’s gone.’ 

‘A pleasure,’ the man said in a lilting Irish accent as he brushed softly past Moran. It was a meaningless pleasantry but there was something cold in his tone that captured Sebastian’s interest. He wanted to examine the new arrival more closely, but he was quickly monopolised by the Headmaster, and then by the enthusiastic Arthur for the rest of the meal, so that when he was able to glance down the table again Moriarty had gone. 

Sebastian rose and left for his room again as soon as he was decently able. There he slept, and he did not dream of the black water again that night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian gets to know some of his colleagues a little better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I can tell, Jawaharlal Nehru’s ‘Tryst with Destiny’ speech was only broadcast live on All India Radio on the 15th August 1947. However, I’m going to exercise poetic licence and pretend that the BBC World Service was airing it too, as it seems even less believable that Sebastian would be able to tune into an Indian radio station from deepest, darkest Devon.

“For every snake, there is a ladder; for every ladder, a snake”   
― Salman Rushdie, Midnight's Children  
August 5th 1947 

The last of the rain was being steadily burned off the lawns by the sun, already hot enough at six o’clock to heat the back of Sebastian’s neck as he jogged a careful circle  round the school grounds. On his route he’d spotted at least three places where people had obviously been slipping off-site illicitly as well as the remnants of two bonfires, one an amateur piece of work at the edge of a small copse of trees, the other a rather better-concealed effort further into the woodland. He’d stopped to kick over the ashes in this second one; it seemed that whoever had lit it had used a textbook as fuel — maths, judging by the arcane symbols on the few fragments of paper that were left.

He stayed along the treeline for the rest of the route, only breaking cover to run the last few yards up to the staff entrance. As he closed in on the doorway he was rapidly overtaken by a woman on a bicycle — the sneering French teacher, he recalled. She dismounted while still in motion and lit a cigarette in almost the same movement, propping her bike up against the wall and giving Sebastian a cool glance by way of a greeting. 

‘Morning,’ Sebastian said, and deciding to prod a little at her taciturn facade, continued, ‘you’re in early’. 

She shrugged, a minute movement of her shoulders. ‘My landlady, down in the village,’ she explained, ‘she is not an unpleasant person, but she is too cheerful in the mornings. I find it best to get out of the way’. 

‘I imagine,’ Sebastian said, ‘I couldn’t trouble you for a cigarette?’   
She lit one without ceremony and passed it to him, and he inhaled the strong, unfiltered tobacco gratefully. 

‘Gauloises,’ he said, ‘you clearly like to live up to the stereotype, Madame Bloch.’  
‘You may as well call me Françoise, I find this English obsession with surnames tiresome, and yes, why not? It has its uses. No-one expects the angry Frenchwoman to be their nanny.’ 

‘And that’s just the staff,’ Sebastian grinned around his cigarette. ‘Well, seeing as we’re on first-name terms, mine’s Sebastian.’ 

They smoked in silence for a while, Sebastian relishing the heat of the rising sun on his face. 

‘So I imagine you want me to tell you all about the rest of the staff,’ Françoise said eventually. 

‘If it’s not too much trouble.’   
She smirked and shook her head. ‘At least you’re honest. Well, you’ve met the Headmaster, so you won’t need me to tell you that he’s self-important and largely ineffectual. He’ll let you get on with things but if you make a mistake he’ll cut you loose like that.‘ She mimed a snipping motion in the air between them. ‘Simmons is the same as every Games Master in the country, a bully with a tendency to drink rather more than he should. He does so most frequently in the company of the Science Master, Bothwell, who suffers it, but mocks him behind his back. Langland, who teaches them Latin and Greek, is almost dead, Arthur is charming, but hopelessly naive, and as for Moriarty…' 

She trailed off and Sebastian waited silently for her to continue. ‘I can’t decide about Moriarty,’ she said eventually. ‘He tends to cycle through three different personalities, and I’m quite sure none of them reflect his true nature, if such a thing exists for any of us.’ 

‘I doubt it somehow,’ Sebastian; who’d seen the marvellous changes in supposedly immutable personalities that a small amount of cordite could effect, replied. 

‘You’re probably right,’ Francoise allowed. ‘As for the boys, the younger ones are homesick and afraid, the eldest bitter about not having had the chance to play at being heroes during the war but the ones you need to watch are the fifth form. There’s something wrong with them.’  

‘I’d gathered that,’ Sebastian said, ‘ordinary bad behaviour or something more?’   
She narrowed her eyes, considering. ‘The former for most of them, but there are a few among them who will probably go too far one day,’ she said, and smiled. It gave a slightly wicked cast to her face. ‘It makes me glad I have to sleep in the village for propriety’s sake, It’ll be you lot with boarding duty who’ll be the first to know when they do.’ 

‘I look forward to it,’ Sebastian said dryly, nodding a farewell as he stubbed out his cigarette and went inside. 

***

The days passed, each warmer than the last. Sebastian staved off boredom by exploring the grounds thoroughly, discovering six places where the boys had stashed illicit cigarettes. He amused himself by taking a single smoke from each, just enough to make them paranoid. That avenue exhausted, he took the parts of his old Enfield rifle from beneath the false bottom of his trunk, oiled them, assembled them and then took the gun apart once more. In the evenings he spoke sparingly to Francoise and spent a few nights in the village pub letting Arthur’s amiable chatter wash over him. 

When he grew desperate during the long evenings he even spent some hours in lamplight at his desk, dredging up long-buried knowledge in order to plan for the approaching autumn term. 

During all this time he saw Dr Moriarty only once. It was still light at eight o’clock and restlessness and driven him out of his room and down to the main hall, where, during dinner, he had spotted a stain running along the skirting board, visible even through the whitewash. He was pretty sure it was a bloodstain but he wanted to be certain and so he was crouching down beside the wall, flaking off paint with his pocket knife when he felt eyes on him. 

The instinct to flinch had been beaten out of him by the time he was twelve, so he craned his neck round carefully to see who was watching. 

Moriarty was standing in the doorway, the picture of academic absent-mindedness in his tweed suit and with a stack of papers beneath his arm. It was a carefully composed image, and every element of it was subtly wrong. The creases in his suit were too sharp, its pockets too small to contain anything more than a couple of cigarettes and possibly a razor-blade. Most telling of all, he hadn’t bothered at all to ensure that the polite, half-puzzled smile he wore reached his eyes. 

Sebastian was suddenly very uncomfortable with his position, leaning against the wall, his back exposed to this man who all of a sudden made Sebastian’s instincts scream ‘threat, threat, threat’. But he fought down the urge to swivel round and get himself up and into a defensive position, and instead stayed put while keeping his eyes locked on Moriarty and his hand steady on his knife. 

Unexpectedly, Moriarty’s smile widened and, Sebastian couldn’t be sure if it was a trick of the light, but he was almost certain he winked before disappearing back into the shadows of the corridor. 

Sebastian didn’t see him again until the night of the 15th August, 

***

‘Oh good heavens!’ Mrs Franklin cried as she walked into the staff room and turned on the light.

‘Good evening, Matron,’ Sebastian said, from where he was perched on the edge of an armchair, a cigarette clamped between his lips and the staff wireless half-disemboweled on the table before him. 

‘What an earth are you doing, Mr Moran?’ she frowned, ‘you had better put that together again.’ 

‘I’ll do more than that, I’ll actually make the damn thing work,’ Sebastian assured her cheerfully. 

She sniffed, ‘well that’s something I suppose. Mr Bothwell said he would repair it, but he didn’t get round to it before the end of term. Now Mr Moran, there’s no need to disturb yourself,’ she said, as she pushed past him to get to the teapot. 

Sebastian appreciated the way she made it sound like a threat. 

He also admired the way she sat there, stolidly working her way through a pot of tea and reading one of the daily newspapers, seemingly totally unaffected by the increasingly loud and tortured sounds he drew out of the wireless. It was an hour later and she had taken her leave by the time the static resolved itself into the affected tones of the BBC World Service. It wasn’t quite All india Radio but Sebastian reckoned it’d be good enough. 

Sebastian checked the clock and saw that he had a few minutes to get a glass of scotch before half-past eight, which would be getting on for midnight where it mattered, in New Delhi. 

‘And now we bring you news from India, where the Constituent Assembly is being convened. We will shortly hear the Prime Minister, Mr Nehru, speaking to those assembled there.’ The announcer’s voice was studiedly neutral, but there was anticipation in the crackle of the airwaves as the connection to New Delhi was made. 

‘Long years ago, we made a tryst with destiny,’ Jawaharlal Nehru began, addressing the crowds in the Constitution Hall, five thousand miles away. 

Sebastian took a long swallow from his glass of whiskey and settled in to listen.   
Nehru’s speech was half-complete before Sebastian noticed him (it still sounds like Nehru is standing there) standing at the door. He looked different, less pale and diminished in the twilight, and the orange gleam of his cigarette reflected in his dark eyes in a way that struck some uneasy chord within Sebastian. He had the decency to wait until the speech was over before he spoke, pouring himself a drink near-silently and settling down in the chair opposite. 

‘Jai Hind,’ Sebastian mouthed an echo of Nehru’s parting words and Moriarty’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction, as though he had just proved a point to himself.   
‘Not drinking to the end of empire then,’ he stated softly. 

Sebastian snorted, ‘The empire was already dead in India long before I was born. Though you wouldn’t know it, the way my parents carried on.’ 

‘You were born there,’ Moriarty said, ‘in Delhi.’  

‘in Simla actually,’ Sebastian said, ‘my mother was up in the hills for the rainy season when I was born. But yes, I lived in the capital until they sent me away to school when I was ten.’ 

‘Ah, so you wouldn’t qualify for citizenship,’ Moriarty said, ‘such a shame.’    
Sebastian snorted, ‘I think even if I did they wouldn’t want a hangover from the Raj sticking around, and who can blame them?’ 

‘It would be exciting though,’ Moriarty mused, staring into his as yet untouched whisky, ‘to wake up and find yourself in a completely new country. Such a sense of possibility, not like dull little England.’ He raised his glass in an ironic toast to the balmy summer evening outside, set it aside and then rose from his chair so rapidly that Sebastian had no time to suppress his soldier’s instinct to reach for a weapon. 

Moriarty smiled with unnerving brightness at Sebastian’s aborted grab for his gun.  ‘Well this was very pleasant, Moran, always a pleasure to get to know one’s colleagues,’ he said with blatant insincerity, and he paused by the doorway on his way out. ‘We all have our reasons for being here, but as you’re already bored, Moran, I’d recommend you find something to amuse yourself with, before you end up dismantling more than that wireless.’ He smirked and left as silently as he arrived and Sebastian finally let his hand fall from where it had been reaching for his absent holster. 

‘What the fuck,’ he breathed, and, pointedly ignoring the still-full glass left by Moriarty, poured himself another drink. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who has been waiting for Jim to start making his presence felt, this chapter's for you.

“We often hear, almost invariably, however, from superficial observers, that guilt can look like innocence. I believe it to be infinitely the truer axiom of the two that innocence can look like guilt.”  
― Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone

 

Bletchley Park, 1943: 

In the privacy of his mind, Mycroft Holmes referred to his frequent trips to Bletchley Park as his fire-fighting sessions. Indeed, were it not for the spectacular results that were beginning to emerge, he would have advocated shutting the whole facility down. As it was, he was frequently required to waste his valuable time appeasing ruffled academics and ensuring that the necessary leaks of intelligence to the Russians didn’t become a flood. 

For once however, his business was not with Enigma, which was ticking along as well as could be expected with the amount of egos involved, but with Hut 7 and the cryptanalysts working on the Japanese codes. 

As promised, John Tiltman was waiting for him as his driver pulled up at the gates and passed through without stopping. It had been five years since Mycroft had last been require to identify himself. 

‘Good morning John,’ he said affably, noting the signs of weariness around his eyes and the nicotine-stained fingers that spoke of abnormal amounts of stress. 

‘I wondered when it would be our turn for a visitation,’ John said, shaking his hand. ‘I gather Agnes buttonholed you?’ 

‘At a rather interminable meeting with the Americans yes,’ Mycroft replied, ‘it was the only point of interest in a long evening.’ He steered John down a path across the grounds that had conveniently cleared itself of messengers and secretaries. ‘Tell me, how are your proteges doing?’ 

‘Very well,’ John said, an unmistakeable note of pride entering his voice, ‘we had to winnow a few out at first, being the best and brightest at Oxford or Cambridge doesn’t always go hand in hand with an ability to work under military discipline you know...’

‘Yes, I am well aware of that,’ Mycroft murmured, thinking of his brother, who was becoming slightly less impossible under the tutelage of Inspector Lestrade of the SIB, but who could still never be described as tractable. 

‘But the team we’ve got in place now is excellent,’ John continued, and he knew Mycroft well enough not to elaborate until they reached Hut 7, letting him make his own deductions before providing more data. 

A few of the denizens of Hut 7 looked up when they came in, but most remained hunched over their work, their pencils scratching away, papers being silently passed over the table. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and looked past the bright-eyed exhaustion they had in common to scrutinise the outliers, potential assets and problems alike. 

Three stood out. One, who sat directly in front of Mycroft, was obviously struggling with the pace set by his fellows. Mycroft could see that the short hair on the back of his head was damp with sweat and that his hands were hesitating somewhat over the papers in front of him. Next his eyes were drawn to one of the young men on the other side of the table, who had been the first and quickest to look up when Mycroft had come in. He seemed perfectly composed now, but Mycroft took in the unbuttoned collar, the tie thrown over the back of the chair and the way he took care to smile at the secretary when he passed some papers to her, and recognised the signs of someone trying too hard to appear at ease. He mentally added him to the list of those passing secrets to the Russians and was about to move on when he saw the young man dart a quick glance over to the desks at the back of the room. Mycroft followed his gaze over to another man who sat there, he seemed indistinguishable from the men sat staring intently down at their desks around him, but Mycroft noted that both of the desks on either side of him were unoccupied. Mycroft wondered if it might be due to a dislike of the man, but there was something about the set of his shoulders and the rapidity with which his pencil flew when he started writing that made him think the distance between him and his colleagues was due more to fear. 

Mycroft walked outside and lit a cigarette. John followed. 

‘Spotted anything untoward?’ John enquired seriously. 

‘You need to fire the blonde man who was sitting in front of us, he won’t keep up.’ Mycroft said, ‘aside from that, it is as you said, a very effective team.’ He took a drag on his cigarette, relishing the taste of tobacco. ‘I’m particularly interested in the red-haired man who was opposite him and the one sat in splendid isolation at the back.’ 

‘Ah,’ John said, evidently having expected this enquiry, ‘well Thomas Byrne was the one at the table, bright lad, but...’ He hesitated and glanced over at Mycroft, ‘I don’t like to get involved in their personal lives, but I think his is a little irregular...’ 

Mycroft waved a hand, ‘I don’t care about regulations, just make sure he’s not being blackmailed. And the other?’ 

‘Moriarty,’ John nodded, ‘our other Irishman. I thought you’d notice him. He’s our best mind by far. I think he sees the work here is a pleasant distraction from his doctoral studies.’ He frowned, ‘I do get the impression some of the others are a little afraid of him.’

‘I had gathered that,’ Mycroft said thoughtfully. 

John glared at him, ‘just promise you won’t poach him until after the war.’ 

Mycroft smiled thinly, ‘I can assure you, I have no intention of doing so.’ 

Some fifteen minutes later Mycroft was called away to SOE headquarters in order to prevent all-out war breaking out between them and the Admiralty, but he filed the incident neatly away in his mind to refer to later. 

So it was that, two years later, when James Moriarty arrived at Euston station, he spotted a tail after five minutes. He sighed, ducked into a Lyons Corner House, and wrote a letter to an old acquaintance in Devon. 

***

‘Jenkins,’ Sebastian drawled, keeping his eyes on the essay he was liberally spattering with red ink and relishing the near-imperceptible sound of multiple boys holding their breath, ‘you’re considering leaning back on your chair and looking at Henderson’s paper. I wouldn’t advise it, you might lose your balance and crack your head open on the desk.’ He looked upwards and held Jenkins’ wide-eyed gaze until the boy looked down. 

Silence reigned until the bell for the end of the lesson and Sebastian dismissed them quickly, not wishing to labour the point. 

As the students trailed obediently out of the room, Sebastian heard another flurry of indrawn breaths and saw the last students rapidly flattening themselves against the wall as Moriarty came in. He bypassed them without a second look and perched upon a desk, lighting a cigarette. 

‘I heard one of the boys in the corridor swear blind that you had killed a tiger with your bare hands.’ Moriarty observed. ‘You have a knack for gaining a reputation quite rapidly.’

Sebastian grinned, ‘That’s not the most original thing that has been said about me, but I suppose they’re only fifteen.’ 

‘I could grow to resent you Sebastian my dear,’ Moriarty said absently, ‘I was forced to ignite a particularly poor piece of work in the middle of a lesson before I gained a similar level of notoriety.’ 

‘Obviously those boys didn’t have much of an instinct for self preservation.’ 

Moriarty grinned, ‘clearly, it’s a lack of imagination that’s the problem.’ He put out his cigarette on the corner of the desk. ‘Shall we?’ 

Sebastian followed warily. This had been going on for some weeks and he had still not worked out what Moriarty meant by it. He’d vanished completely after the night they had spoken in the staff room, only returning a few days before the school filled up with students once more. But ever since he had pursued Sebastian with a casual yet tenacious friendliness, which seemed somehow at odds with the picture Sebastian had been beginning to build of his character. He had observed the other teachers carefully when Moriarty sought him out in the staff room or at dinner, but none of them seemed to register any particular surprise at Moriarty’s behaviour, bar an occasional raised eyebrow from Francoise. So he went along with it, while readying himself for the moment when the other shoe would drop. 

It finally did, though not quite in the way Sebastian expected, on the following Friday. 

***  
It was the last lesson of the day and; in spite of the fact that the sun was creeping towards the treeline, Sebastian had taken his sullen and secretive fifth-formers out onto the field for a practical demonstration. The year group was notorious throughout the school, but the rumour mill had done its job effectively enough to ensure that they paid close attention as Sebastian took them through the Battle of Naesby. 

‘Once more,’ he said, aware that he had acquired an audience. Moriarty, Francoise and Arthur, an unlikely trio, had converged on the sidelines and were watching the proceedings with interest. ‘You, Rutherford,’ he said to a boy whose eyes were beginning to glaze over, ‘demonstrate the musket drill.’ 

Rutherford’s hands flew obediently to an invisible powder-pouch, pouring its contents into an imaginary musket before raising it to his shoulder and firing.

‘4 seconds,’ Sebastian said, ‘not bad. Penrose,’ he turned to another boy, ‘would Naesby have looked like this?’ he gestured around the school grounds, empty apart from their little group and some sixth-formers playing rugby in the distance. 

‘No sir,’ Penrose replied, ‘it’d be...louder and there’d be more people sir.’ 

‘Yes, but what does that mean,’ Sebastian said, and sighed when he was faced with an array of blank looks. ‘You, Rutherford, do the drill again and Penrose, while he’s doing it dive at his legs and scream as loud as you can.’ 

Both boys stared at him. 

‘Am I required to repeat myself?’ Sebastian said, raising an eyebrow. 

Rutherford’s hands flew into position and Penrose immediately yelled and dove for his ankles. Sebastian watched the ensuing chaos with some amusement, counting down the time until Rutherford was able to get his musket to his shoulder. 

‘Twenty seconds Rutherford,’ he said, ‘easy meat for the Cavaliers. Powers,’ he turned to a tall, slightly insolent looking boy, whose eyes had darted briefly to Moriarty when he had arrived, ‘summarise the problem for me.’ 

‘It’s all very well knowing the drill,’ Powers replied, ‘but it’s still hard to do it in battlefield conditions, sir.’ 

‘And the solution to this problem?’ Sebastian enquired. 

Powers thought for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘Training sir.’ 

‘Exactly,’ Sebastian eyed the boys, confident he had their undivided attention. ‘That was the difference the New Model Army made boys, not weapons, not conviction, training. Give a man a gun and send him to war and you may as well have given him a block of wood unless you’ve trained him until he could kill in his sleep if he had to.’ He smiled, aware that his point was made and that there would be at least six new stories about him circulating around the fifth form by breakfast. ‘You are dismissed. In our next lesson we will be completing an essay on the key reasons for the Roundheads’ victory at Naesby, so come prepared.’ 

The boys trailed back towards the school buildings, leaving Sebastian to greet his colleagues. 

‘Good show Sebastian!’ Arthur said, ‘I wish I had them all so rapt!’ 

‘The boys like war,’ Francoise said dryly, ‘and Sebastian has a tendency to approach life as though it were a battle.’ 

‘Of course,’ Sebastian replied with perfect seriousness, then he smiled, ‘especially lessons with fifth form.’ 

Arthur laughed as though he had made some great jest, Francoise and Moriarty however, did not, though the latter seemed faintly pleased. 

As the teachers made their own way back into the school, Sebastian learned that the others had not wandered into his lesson by accident. Arthur had taken it into his head that they should all walk down to the village that night to visit the pub and was insistent that Sebastian should join them, mentioning the prospect of having a game of darts as though it were some kind of trump card. 

‘Yes Sebastian, you must come,’ Francoise said, raising her eyebrows in order to emphasise how unwilling she was to keep Arthur company without him.  
Sebastian fought down a smirk and acquiesed with good grace. As he did, he happened to glance over at Moriarty and saw that he hadn’t bothered not to smirk around his cigarette. For some reason he couldn’t name Sebastian thought that it was because of a different, private joke. 

***  
The night was warm enough for Sebastian to walk down to the village in his shirtsleeves and Arthur quickly emulated him. Moriarty however, kept his neat, sharply-tailored jacket about his shoulders. In the twilight, the hedgerows looked frail and wilted, exhausted by the long heat of summer and the weeks that had passed without rain. It was mid-September but autumn still seemed distant, the sharpness brought by cold and decay had not yet crept into the air. The village pub was busy and bright, crammed with men come back from the fields, some of the local bobbies and; as a sign of the changing times, the women who ran the Post office, who were laughing together in the pub garden. 

‘I’ll get the first round,’ Arthur said, clapping Sebastian on the back, his hand lingering a little too long before he moved away. 

Sebastian fought the urge to roll his eyes, the boy probably didn’t even realise what he was doing. There had been a couple like him when he’d been out in France and Sebastian had taken care to scare them off. Their clumsy attentions were irritating, and their inexperience was dangerous. His liasons, brief as they had been, had all been with men whom nature or bitter experience had made cautious, but who still knew how to send out the correct, subtle signals when the time was right. 

Signals, not unlike the covert but decided stare the red-haired young man at the bar had been directing towards Moriarty ever since they had come in. Sebastian glanced behind him to see if his colleague had noticed, but he seemed oblivious to it, absorbed in his conversation with Francoise. Sebastian could see why the man might make assumptions about Moriarty, he had the air of a dandy about him, which was far from conclusive in itself, but which, when added to his casual demeanour with Francoise, was a small sign that his interests lay elsewhere. Sebastian had not missed it, and it seemed, neither had the man at the bar. 

Arthur returned at this point, pressing drinks into their hands and starting to regale them with some anecdote about his third-form class. Sebastian listened to him with every appearance of interest, but kept a sharp eye on both the man at the bar and Moriarty. He was therefore able to observe closely the point where they first fell into conversation. 

Moriarty had volunteered to get the next round and, the crowd around the bar having grown, had approached the barman from the side where the man sat perched upon a barstool. This looked like an accidental manoeuvre, but as the two fell immediately into conversation, it was clear that it was the result of calculation on Moriarty’s part.  
Sebastian had learned to lip-read out of necessity, as he had found it useful to know exactly what his Lieutenant was screaming at him over the roar of the guns. He was therefore able to follow the conversation between Moriarty and the man at the bar reasonably closely. 

‘James, it’s been a while,’ the man said, leaning in intently. 

Moriarty seemed to ignore him, concentrating on giving his order to the barman, but when he had finished, he replied, his mouth moving so slightly that Sebastian had to concentrate hard to discern what he was saying. ‘Hello Thomas, I assume you aren’t visiting me out of a misplaced sense of nostalgia.’ 

‘No,’ the man smiled around the word, ‘we need to talk about our situation.’ 

‘Again?’ Moriarty sighed, ‘very well, I’ll meet you...’ Then, to Sebastian’s frustration, he turned his head away, so that the arrangements they made remained obscure. He kept watching however, and for the briefest second, before Moriarty turned away, his face transformed into a rictus of such poisonous anger that Sebastian’s breath caught at the sight of it. In a second his expression was all bland friendliness once more, but that brief slip confirmed Sebastian’s suspicions. 

‘Sebastian, Sebastian!’ 

He started as he realised Francoise had been trying to get his attention a lapse that alarmed him. He had evidently become so focused on the conversation at the bar that he had become unaware of his surroundings, a mistake he hadn’t made for many years. 

‘I’m a little tired,’ Francoise said, unaware of his alarm, ‘would you mind walking me back to my lodgings once we’ve finished this drink?’ Her gaze was cool, as though she was aware that she was the one doing him a favour and he quickly agreed, downing his scotch and grabbing his coat. 

They left Arthur absorbed in his game of darts, though Moriarty joined them at the door, his frown indicating that conversation would not be welcome. Sebastian was thankful for it, as it meant that they were able to walk back to the school in silence, dropping Francoise off and not exchanging a word until they parted at the school entrance. 

It was probably a trick of his mind, but Sebastian was convinced there was something knowing about Moriarty’s expression as they went their separate ways, as though it was Sebastian who had been the one caught in some kind of indiscretion. It unsettled him, and he parted with the man a little more curtly than usual, stalking up the stairs while fighting the irrational urge to glance back to see if he was still standing there, watching. 

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he returned to his room, moving straight to the window and lighting a cigarette irritably. 

Blackmail was it? The idea annoyed him for some reason, it was an occupational hazard of course and Sebastian had been threatened with it a couple of times, but it somehow didn’t fit that Moriarty might be caught up in it. Half-finished, he stubbed out his cigarette viciously. It was no concern of his, no doubt Moriarty had the wherewithal to get himself out of that mess and when he did woe bedite the blackmailer. The thought soothed him a little, enough that he was able to roll into bed and drift into an uneasy sleep. 

Across the school James Moriarty sat silently on his bed. He too had left his rooms in darkness so there was no light to reveal the changing expressions of his face. His laughter, when it came, split the stillness without warning and sounded all the more violent for the silence that had preceded it. 

After his laughing fit had passed, he lit the lamp and, still smiling, pulled out some papers from the locked drawer of his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few historical notes for this chapter: 
> 
> -John Tiltman was the director of Hut 7 at Bletchley Park, where Japanese codes were focused on. In 1942 a crash-course in Japanese was set up for undergrduates from Oxford and Cambridge, this prepared them to work in Hut 7. In this story, Jim and Thomas were two such undergraduates. 
> 
> -Agnes is the badass Agnes Meyer Driscoll, who was one of the most important cryptanalysts working during WWII, she focused on cracking Japanese naval codes before being diverted to the Enigma project. 
> 
> -The SIB was a branch of the military police, set up in 1940 when 19 detectives transferred to the Army from the Met, it investigated serious crimes in the UK and overseas. 
> 
> -SOE was the Special Operations Executive, essentially spy central and the sort of thing Mycroft would be all over like a rash.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim trolls the fifth-form and Seb deals with some unfortunate consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're finally getting going with the sexual tension, hopefully the following chapters will reward your patience.
> 
> Thank you to my glorious beta Vana, who tracks my misplaced commas across fandoms. Proof positive that it is always an excellent idea to date one's editor.

“dream is the dreamer's own psychical act.”  
― Sigmund Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams

The cold crept in through October, increasing day by day until Sebastian was woken by it every morning, his breath hanging like smoke above his bed. The school seemed to draw in on itself and become subdued by the onset of autumn, the boys were quiet and sullen, and around the staff table conversations became stilted and lacklustre. 

Moriarty was the most silent of all. He still passed through Sebastian’s classroom, but hovered ghostlike, without a word spoken to him or the students. His quietness had an expectant quality, as though he were ollowing some complex train of thought to its conclusion. Or, thought Sebastian; who had trained himself to be patient over many long days hunched over a rifle, it was the stillness of a predator waiting to strike. 

‘We should try it,’ Sebastian was walking through the grounds when he overheard a cluster of fifth-formers huddled together in deep discussion. He walked softly, ensuring they remained oblivious to his presence and listened as the boy; Fitz-something or other continued, ‘I mean it, we should give it a go, after all, we can always say it was an accident.’ 

‘Oh yeah,’ another boy said, and Sebastian recognised the insolent tones of Powers, ‘that’ll only work if you lot stick to it when the teachers come round asking.’ This was met by protestations by the other boys that ceased rapidly when Sebastian decided to break up their little group by treading audibly on a twig. 

Several heads darted up, and someone was heard to mutter ‘oh hell, it’s the Tiger,’ before the boys dispersed. Sebastian walked past them at a leisurely pace, feeling their worried gazes upon his back all the way to the school. 

***

‘You’ve got boarding duty tomorrow night haven’t you,’ Simmons grunted as he passed Sebastian the coffee pot.  
‘Yes,’ Sebastian replied, ‘I think it’s mine and Moriarty’s turn. Why?’ 

‘Oh you’ll have an interesting evening indeed,’ Simmons said, ‘some sixth-formers started a craze for All-Hallows Eve a few years back and the younger ones have kept it up. Mostly it’s just them scaring themselves stiff with ghost stories but some of the older ones,’ he glanced meaningfully at the fifth form table, ‘they’re inclined to try and pull some pranks.’ 

‘Hmm,’ Sebastian watched the little cluster around Powers with narrowed eyes, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ 

***

‘You’d better have a cigarette Seb, darling,’ Moriarty drawled as they lounged against the corridor wall. 

Seb raised an eyebrow, were they back to that? But he lit a cigarette and handed it over without comment. It was five minutes until curfew and most of the boys had retreated to their rooms, the last sounds of subdued chatter leaking from under their doors until silence was enforced for the night. He glanced over at Moriarty who seemed slightly on-edge, his eyes bright and gleaming and his hair, normally smoothed carefully back, ruffled and unkempt. 

Seb did not know why that unusual scruffiness kept drawing his eye, but it did. 

‘So,’ Moriarty said, the cheer in his voice making the hairs on the back of Seb’s neck stand on end, ‘when do you think the trouble is going to start?’ 

‘They’ll want to wait til midnight,’ Seb replied, ‘it’s traditional after all, but some of the more cowardly ones will start losing their nerve so Powers will get started a little early, around half-ten I’d say.’ 

‘Ah Powers,’ Moriarty said with some relish, ‘so you’re of the opinion he’s our ringleader? Most of the staff would say he was a model student.’ 

Seb snorted, ‘most of the staff are easily gulled. Powers is the type to cause trouble, but he’s got enough wit not to be caught in the act. I know the type, it works for them at school but it leaves them arrogant.’ He smiled. ‘It doesn’t end well.’ 

Moriarty’s answering grin was unnervingly wide. ‘Oh Seb, there’s not a trace of method in your thinking but your instincts my dear, they are a thing of beauty.’ His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come and he strode off down the corridor, his steps rapid but completely silent. 

Seb swallowed, whatever Moriarty thought of his instincts, at the moment they seemed to be at war. He was subject at once to the desire to swiftly and ruthlessly remove himself from the corridor, the school, whatever would take him from Moriarty’s orbit. But there was something else, which seemed to have a greater hold on him, that was drawing him ever closer in. 

He shook it off and followed, equally quietly, joining Moriarty outside the door to the dormitory where Powers and his cronies rested. They waited there in silence for some while, Seb setling into the slow-breathed space he used to occupy with a rifle in his hand. He was brought out of it when Moriarty, his eyes bright with anticipation, tapped on his watch-face and showed it to him. Seb read the time, it was twenty-five minutes past ten. 

He nodded to show he understood and turned his attention to the doorway. He was half expecting to hear something, a muffled shout or a laugh perhaps, but the thing that first alerted him was the smell. His nostrils flared and he glanced over to Moriarty, mouthing ‘smoke’ to let him know what was going on. Moriarty’s eyes widened in anticipation as he understood and he pulled himself up, lithe as a cat, and started examining the lock, the boys had evidently purloined Matron’s keys in order to close it.

‘That was quick,’ Seb murmured as Moriarty extracted a lock-pick from his shirt pocket and opened the door within seconds. 

Moriarty smiled conspiriatorially, ‘these locks are hardly complex,’ he whispered. They crept into the dormitory, following the smell of smoke and the sound of excited whispers. 

‘Quiet,’ Powers hissed, his face lit up from below by the small fire, made of discarded textbooks, that the boys had made in the middle of the dormitory floor. They were sat cross-legged around it, their eyes on Powers, who was reading something from an exercise book with a portentous air. 

‘Is this really going to work?’ One of the boys queried, half cynical, half nervous. 

‘That’s what it says,’ Powers leered, ‘that if you read the right words on this night, that you can summon up the devil to answer three questions. But of course, if you’re too chicken...’ 

Seb rolled his eyes at the bravado that ensued, waiting until the boys eventually grew quiet and it was just Powers’ excited voice reading out some incantation; god knows where he had found it. Powers’ voice got louder and louder as he neared what was obviously the climax of the chant then fell silent, he and the rest of the boys looking into the fire in anticipation of what might follow. 

‘Hello boys,’ Moriarty said, from the darkness behind them. 

***

After the screaming had stopped and Matron and the Headmaster had been summoned; the latter asking Seb and Moriarty rather abruptly to wait for him in the staffroom, Seb watched as Moriarty finally allowed himself to succumb to helpless laughter. 

‘You arsehole,’ Seb muttered as Moriarty flung himself into an armchair, giggling, ‘you enjoyed that far too much.’ 

‘Oh Seb, darling, did you see their faces?’ 

Seb couldn’t help but grin, ‘I thought Powers was going to wet himself. Then he looked at you as though he wanted to kill you.’ It occurred to him that Powers’ anger spoke of a long-running feud rather than the outrage of a boy who’s prank had been interrupted. ‘Moriarty...’

‘Jim.’ Moriarty interrupted him, ‘you should call me Jim.’ All traces of laughter had gone from his face as though they’d been wiped away suddenly by an impatient hand and his eyes pinned Seb to his chair. 

‘Jim,’ Seb said carefully, it seemed like a step too far, somehow, which was ridiculous. Moriarty... Jim had been free not just with Seb’s name, but with a nickname that he hadn’t used since his army days. But returning the favour seemed somehow too intimate. ‘Jim,’ he tried again. 

Jim still hadn’t broken their stare when the part of Seb that was always monitoring his surroundings picked up the sounds of footsteps from outside. ‘Someone’s coming,’ he said, feeling unaccountably that if the Headmaster walked in right now he would be catching them out in some manner. 

Jim subsided back into his chair as the Headmaster came in. ‘Moran, Moriarty,’ he greeted them slightly curtly, ‘I won’t keep you long. I’ve placed the boys involved in detention for destroying school property and I believe that should be the end of the matter.’ 

Jim sent an amused look Seb’s way and raised his eyebrows in mock innocence, ‘of course you must do what you think best Headmaster, but perhaps Powers’ father ought to be informed, from what we saw he appeared to be the ringleader.’ 

The headmaster waved a dismissive hand, ‘I don’t think we need to bother him about a bit of youthful high-spirits. After all, there was very little harm done.’ His expression made it clear that this was the end of the matter. ‘Goodnight gentlemen, thank you for nipping that one in the bud.’ 

‘So, Powers’ father is in government?’ Sebastian enquired after the headmaster had sailed out. 

‘Close,’ Moriarty replied, ‘but not quite. General Powers has a lot of influence in the army, he’s a decorated veteran, and we all know how the headmaster respects a man in uniform.’ He grinned wolfishly, stood up and stretched, sauntering past Seb’s chair towards the doorway. 

Then all of a sudden his mouth was inches from Seb’s ear, his hand curling round the edge of his collar. ‘Thank you for a most diverting evening,’ he murmured, lingering on the word so that it sounded vaguely obscene, ‘I’ve been so bored of late.’ Sebastian froze as he felt the wet heat of his tongue tracing the edge of his ear and could not hold back a sharp inhale, which Jim noticed; of course he did, the bastard, laughing lowly before pulling away and striding out of the door. 

Seb cursed and willed his heartbeat to slow down. His skin was prickling up and down his arms, his palms were sweaty and he wasn’t sure whether it was desire he was feeling, anger, or some unholy combination of the two. Probably the last, worse luck. The little shit had played him like a violin, getting him into the headspace of a stakeout, making him laugh and then pulling that shit with his tongue. Seb yanked violently on his hair to try and prevent the shiver that coursed through him at the memory of it. It didn’t work. 

He went to bed and fought off sleep for as long as he could. But his resistance seemed only to strengthen its hold on him and he eventually sank down into a dream. 

***

Four weeks later: 

He was sitting in the staffroom, it was midnight again and he had a glass of scotch in his hand. So far, so innocuous. But the air was warm, too warm in fact, the humidity hung in the air as it had done in Bombay, all those years ago. He could smell the heat, the mellowness of tobacco, along with a sharp hint of something chemical. That meant that Jim was here, he must be standing behind him, but in this dream Seb’s instincts did not make him turn to keep the threat in sight, rather he sank back into his chair and the pressure of Jim’s hand on the nape of his neck. 

‘It’s rather inconvenient, this heat,’ Jim’s voice was amused, ‘I don’t know why you insist on bringing the jungle with you everywhere you go.’ 

Seb smiled, ‘you don’t mind. Did I tell you about the time I saw a tiger?’ 

‘Tell me later,’ Jim’s breath was hot on the side of Seb’s face and this time it was his teeth that scraped along his ear, closing around the lobe and tugging rather sharply and drawing a high-pitched gasp from the back of Seb’s throat. He felt Jim smile against his skin before he closed his mouth around the hinge of Seb’s jaw, sucking on the place where it joined his neck, his tongue smearing over his stubble and his small strong hands curling over Seb’s shoulders. 

A bell rang, sharply, and Seb was gasping as he woke up. 

Fuck. 

He swung his legs off the bed and glared sightlessly into the dim light of the morning. This was the tenth time he’d dreamed of Jim, which was hardly surprising as the little bastard had made the past few weeks hell. Jim seemed to have the ability to simultaneously be all over Seb while presenting a facade of perfect propriety to the world. Seb could still feel the ghost of every single casual touch, the remnants of Jim’s hands on his scapulae, the lingering pressure of his fingers curling round his elbow and pressed against his hip and in the small of his back. 

Seb looked down at his lap and sighed at the tell-tale effects of his dream. He’d have to sort that out before the school-day began. 

It didn’t help that he was unable to stew in dissatisfied silence during breakfast, the one meal Jim never came to. For where Jim was reeling him in by one hand, Seb was also having to fend off overtures of friendship from Arthur with the other. He plastered a thin veneer of civility as he dealt with the greetings around the staff table and quickly downed half a cup of watery coffee, which was nowhere near enough. 

‘Good morning Sebastian,’ Arthur smiled at him, ‘only a week left to go!’ He continued as though Seb’s answering grunt had been enthusiastic assent. ‘What are your plans for the Christmas break? Visiting family?’ 

Seb eyed him warily, ‘no, I was planning on staying here as a matter of fact.’ 

‘Oh!’ Arthur’s face brightened even further, ‘well, would you like to come down to Kent with me? We tend to keep an open house over the season and friends are always welcome!’ 

Sebastian quickly swept the neglected vaults of his memory for the diplomatic phrasing he had been forced to learn as a child. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said carefully, ‘but I’ve not been one for large parties since the war, you know...’ He made a vague gesture and prayed Arthur wouldn’t press him further. 

Fortunately Arthur’s inbred politeness won through, ‘oh quite,’ he said, his understanding expression tinged with disappointment, ‘well, if you do happen to change your mind...’ 

‘I’ll let you know,’ Seb smiled tightly and took a sip of coffee, almost spitting it out over the table as he felt a familiar hand on the back of his neck. 

‘Moriarty! You’re up early!’ Arthur exclaimed, his cheer restored. 

‘Indeed,’ Moriarty replied perfectly pleasantly, but something about his tone made Seb’s skin prickle. ‘Could I trouble you for the coffee pot Sebastian? I feel that it may be a long day.’ 

***

Arthur whistled as he packed his trunk into his car, exchanging goodbyes with some of the boys as they too, embarked home for the holidays. Their excitement was infectious, heightening Arthur’s anticipation of the welcome he would receive at home. He only wished that Sebastian hadn’t chosen to join him, it was such a shame that a man like that had nowhere to go for the Christmas season. But maybe next year, when they had become more closely acquainted, he might prevail upon him to join them. 

He heard footsteps on the gravel by his car and he looked up, hopeful, but it was only Moriarty, evidently taking a stroll through the grounds, a cigarette hanging from his lip. 

‘I’m heading off now.’ Arthur said, feeling a little disconcerted when those black eyes fixed upon him. They had a funny look about them, like two dark tunnels with a gleaming orange light floating at the end. But the man was pleasant enough for all that, stubbing his cigarette out beneath his heel before he reached over to shake Arthur’s hand. 

‘Goodbye Arthur,’ he said in that soft Irish lilt. 

‘Have a good Christmas,’ Arthur replied heartily, ‘and I’ll see you next term!’ 

Moriarty merely raised a hand in salute before turning and walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh poor poor Arthur...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sebastian gets into quite a bit of trouble, and this fic finally starts earning its rating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, Pride took over my weekend. In addition to the tags, there is a passing reference to suicide in this chapter.

“Your colleague, Captain Grimes, has been convicted before me on evidence that leaves no possibility of his innocence - of a crime (I might almost call it a course of action) which I can neither understand nor excuse. I dare say I need not particularise.”   
― Evelyn Waugh, Decline and Fall

‘Oh good evening dear, do come in,’ 

Mrs Franklin offered her cheeks for the traditional Continental salute and hurried Francoise over to a chair by the fire. ‘Here, let me take your coat, it’s perishing cold out there. But I suppose you don’t feel it as much, coming in on your bicycle.’ 

‘No, it’s not so bad if you go quickly enough.’ Francoise shrugged out of her coat and poured them both a cup of tea while Mrs Franklin hung it up. 

‘That’s a nice blouse dear,’ Mrs Franklin eyed the coral silk approvingly as she settled herself into her chair, ‘is it new?’ 

‘Old as a matter of fact,’ Francoise said wryly, ‘I bought it back when I was in Paris.’ 

‘Paris,’ Mrs Franklin said appreciatively, ‘I went once, it must be over ten years ago. Mr Franklin took me for our anniversary. His family thought he’d gone mad, going to Paris wasn’t for the likes of us. But off we went anyway, and I’ve never forgotten it. It was such a warm summer and it was perhaps only because we were staying close to one of the markets but it seemed to me that the whole city smelt like lavender.’ 

Francoise smiled, but it had a bitter edge to it. ‘It was rather different by the time I left it.’ 

‘Ah yes,’ Mrs Franklin frowned, ‘that was in 1940 wasn’t it dear.’ 

‘Yes, just before Hitler marched in,’ Francoise smiled wryly and led the conversation into safer waters by enquiring about Mrs Franklin’s health. She did not mention that she had returned afterwards, wearing papers sewn next to her skin which, if discovered, would have got her shot and that throughout that winter, the city had smelled of nothing but cheap wine and fear. Even after liberation, it was that which lingered in her mind when she remembered her native city. But that was a tale not meant for Mrs Franklin’s ears, however sympathetic. 

‘I must say, I’m glad to have you here my dear,’ Mrs Franklin was saying, ‘The others have gone down to the pub in the village, but I couldn’t do the walk in all this snow and I think I might have become a little melancholy here, it being Christmas Eve.’ 

‘Who else is staying?’ Francoise enquired, deceptively casually, ‘I saw the Head leaving for London yesterday.’ 

‘Oh it’s just Mr Moriarty and Mr Moran here now,’ Mrs Franklin said, ‘and they’re pleasant enough gentlemen, but both the sort to keep themselves to themselves, though they seem to get along well enough together. Why, I even heard Mr Moriarty laughing the other day! I’m not surprised mind, some of the tales Mr Moran can tell when he has a mind, you can scarce believe them!’ 

‘Oh I don’t think Mr Moran would have any need to embroider the truth,’ Francoise said dryly, ‘and as for Mr Moriarty, I’m not sure I’d care to hear him laugh. i have a feeling we would differ greatly on what we found humorous.’ 

Mrs Franklin eyed her shrewdly, ‘you’ve never had much of an opinion of Mr Moriarty have you? Is it merely down to a difference in character?’ 

‘I think he’s dangerous Mrs Franklin,’ Francoise said seriously, ‘now I’ll admit, I don’t have the first bit of evidence against him, but nonetheless, there’s something about him that gives me the shivers.’ 

‘There now,’ Mrs Franklin said reassuringly, ‘I’ll not dispute that he’s a little eccentric in his habits, but I’m sure the headmaster wouldn’t have appointed anyone who posed any kind of danger.’ 

Francoise smiled, and again did not voice her thoughts, which were that the headmaster had employed three thoroughly dangerous people, and that two of them were currently getting on like a house on fire. But she took the proffered mince pie and glass of sherry and did not press Mrs Franklin on the subject, allowing the conversation to drift into lighter waters as the wireless played carols in the background. 

***

‘So as you see Simmons’ woeful attempt at constructing a convincing chain of evidence, hinging as it does on the presence of visible footprints, falls down completely when one assumes a reasonable level of athleticism on the part of the murderer.’ 

‘I see,’ Seb replied, breaking off the branch that was poking him in the neck. ‘I’m coming down from the tree now that you’ve demonstrated that point to your satisfaction. I think some snow has slipped beneath my collar.’ 

‘As you wish,’ Jim said, waving a dismissive hand, but his eyes were bright with amusement as Seb descended fluidly from his perch. 

‘Are you going to tell Simmons his book is shit?’ Seb asked, once he was on solid ground again. ‘You have spent the past hour explaining to me why no part of the plot stands up but shouldn’t he be the one listening to your critique. Or are you afraid he’d punch you?’

‘Oh god no,’ Jim sneered, ‘if I told him he’d only ask me to read the revised version.’ He tossed the manuscript into a snow-drift. ‘I’ll say someone in the pub took it. Now,’ he turned his attention to Seb, ‘tell me something interesting.’ 

There was only one possible response to that. ‘Did I tell you about the time I saw a tiger?’ 

Jim raised an eyebrow and offered Seb a cigarette, ‘this wasn’t on a visit to London Zoo I trust?’ 

‘No,’ Seb slowly exhaled the smoke through his nostrils. ‘Before I went up to Oxford I returned to India for a while, to visit an uncle who was still out there. He was a bit of a character, blew his brains out eventually because he couldn’t settle his gambling debts. Anyway, when I arrived at his estate the whole place was in a flap, apparently a man-eater had been spotted in the jungle nearby. So I joined one of the hunting parties and managed to lose them as soon as we got half a mile into the forest.’ He shrugged, ‘not that they cared all that much if some stupid sahib got his throat torn out.’ 

‘What was it like?’ Jim enquired. 

‘Humid as hell,’ Seb grinned, ‘it was right on the edge of the time when most sane people fled for the hills. I lost my shirt pretty quick, it was useless as a dishrag by that point. Here,’ he gestured at the surrounding woodland, ‘we think of the ‘country’ as some kind of escape from the general racket, but the noise in those jungles is astonishing, the air buzzes with it. It feels more like swimming than walking when you’re in the midst of it all. Anyway,’ he caught the thread of his tale again, ‘I found a stream and tracked it for a little while and there she was.’ He smiled. ‘She was glorious, I was damn lucky she didn’t see me or I’d be dead.’ 

‘You didn’t shoot her.’ Jim was standing very close, his eyes fixed on Seb’s face, expectant. 

‘No,’ Seb shook his head, ‘I liked her a damn sight better than anyone chasing her, so I waited until she left, then,’ he grinned, ‘I took a long route back and told them all I’d seen signs of her going in the opposite direction. They spent several days on a false trail.’ 

‘Good,’ Jim grinned and yanked Seb’s head down, pressing their mouths together. 

Seb reacted on instinct, grabbing Jim’s shoulder to pull him in further and running his other hand over the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck. But then he stopped, for Jim had frozen and his eyes were wide with something like shock.

Seb stared back and asked. ‘Is this what you wanted?’

Jim kicked off like a whirlwind, shoving Seb sharply into the nearest tree and pressing himself up against him with enough force to bruise. His hands were sharp on Seb’s shoulders and his mouth was violent, biting at Seb’s lips and sucking hard on his tongue. Seb heard himself groan and he reflexively pushed his hips up, seeking more.   
At that Jim pulled away as quickly as he had come. There was no way of telling, with eyes like that, whether he was affected or not, but Seb noticed that he was blinking a little faster than normal. He paced a quick circle through the snow in front of them and Seb leaned back against the tree and waited. 

After a few seconds Jim darted back in, as though for another kiss, but instead he put his mouth next to Seb’s ear, the heat of his breath making Seb shiver. ‘Tonight,’ he whispered, ‘when we’ve finished playing at being gentlemen with Mrs Franklin, go back to your room, have a last cigarette and turn the lights out. Then come to me. Do you understand?’ He pressed a last rasping kiss to the side of Seb’s face when he nodded, then strode rapidly off down the path away from him. 

Seb was left standing in the snow, breathing as though he had been half-drowned. 

***

‘Well Merry Christmas dears,’ Mrs Franklin, smiling after her fourth glass of sherry, saw them both out of the door. ‘I’ll see the both of you tomorrow, not too early I’ll wager.’ She smiled indulgently at Jim, who had been relentlessly charming all evening and who was now doing a flawless impression of slight tipsiness.   
‘Do you need help getting back to your room?’ Seb enquired facetiously. 

Out of sight of the doorway, Jim shot him a look that burned the breath out of his lungs. ‘Oh I’ll manage,’ he replied, before sauntering off into the darkness.   
Seb bade Mrs Franklin goodnight once again and fought to keep his own tread measured as he made his way back to his room. 

There, the cigarette steadied him a little and he began to think his way around the situation. There was no question of not going. Seb had learned long ago that when his blood burned it was best to give in to it, and deal with the consequences as they came, but it wouldn’t hurt to give a little thought to his approach. From what Seb had gauged from his reactions, it was unlikely that Jim was as experienced as he was in these matters, but he still evidently had some idea of what he was doing. And, judging by his actions earlier today, he was determined to remain in control of the situation. That was fine by Seb, he knew some blokes had decided preferences in that respect, but he’d never bothered much as long as it worked. So he’d let Jim call the tune if that’s what he wanted, but he’d see if he could wring a reaction from the little bugger along the way. 

His plan of attack formed, Seb stubbed out his cigarette, extinguished the lamp and made his way through the halls. 

Jim’s door was open though no lights were on within. Fortunately his night-vision had always been good and he found Jim, sitting in his armchair, his cigarette casting faint orange lights upon his face. 

‘This sort of thing normally bores the hell out of me,’ Jim said after a while, ‘I’ve done it for advantage, and on a whim when a pretty face comes along. But you don’t really fit into either of those categories do you Sebby darling? So explain to me please, why it is that I’ve wanted to fuck you ever since you turned up here?’   
Seb grinned, ‘must be my animal magnetism.’ Then he dropped to his knees in front of Jim. 

He was rewarded with a sharp indrawn breath, and the sight of Jim’s knuckles whitening around the arms of the chair as Seb slowly unbuttoned his trousers and briefs, pulling both down to his ankles and, at Jim’s insistence, removing them and setting them carefully aside. Those hands rapidly moved to grasp at Seb’s hair and once he had got Jim’s cock in his mouth and they were none too gentle at urging Seb into the rhythm Jim evidently preferred. Seb didn’t bother overmuch with teasing, letting Jim set the pace without improvising too much, though he dared a sharp bite to Jim’s inner thigh, which elicited a pleasing grunt, As far as experiences went, it should have barely registered compared to what he had known before, nonetheless, he was forced at intervals to press a palm into his own groin to relieve the pressure there. 

Jim came down his throat without warning and almost completely silently, his unnerving eyes wide and fixed on Seb’s face. Then he sank back boneless and satisfied, only grimacing slightly when Seb commandeered his pocket handkerchief to wipe his mouth. 

‘Well?’ Seb asked after some time had elapsed, ‘are you going to return the favour or am I going to have to avail myself of your facilities. 

Jim sighed, ‘pushy aren’t you? Well I suppose it would be rude of me not to reciprocate. Come here.’ 

He pulled Seb up so that he was standing before him and inveigled his cold clever hand into his briefs. After waiting so long, Seb almost doubled over at the sensation, bracing himself against the back of the chair and watching with fascination as Jim set himself to the task of bringing him over the edge with sharp, precise movements of his wrist. It might have been clinical, had it not been for the unholy glee in Jim’s eyes that brightened with each hissed obscenity that escaped through Seb’s teeth. He was a little disappointed that Jim produced another couple of handkerchiefs from somewhere when he finally spent, he had relished the thought of it smeared all down his wrists, escaping beneath the cuffs of his shirt. But you couldn’t have everything, and Seb was pretty satisfied when he sprawled back down on the floor. 

‘Whisky?’ Jim enquired, pouring two glasses out from the decanter next to him. 

‘Please,’ Seb replied,‘ taking the glass from him gratefully. He took a sip and stretched his legs out with satisfaction. 

‘You look like a great cat down there, like one of your tigers,’ Jim said, amused, ‘I gather it has been a while?’ 

‘Too long,’ Seb grinned. ‘How about you?’ 

‘Oh I don’t really count,’ Jim frowned, ‘I suppose the last time was during the war, I was working on something I absolutely can’t tell you about, deeply secret but deathly dull, and I decided to spice things up by having a few encounters with a colleague.’ He glared into his glass, ‘that was a mistake.’ 

‘Ah,’ Seb said carefully, ‘was that?’ 

‘The unpleasant little man from the pub, yes,’ Jim’s voice had grown cold, ‘I see you’re not entirely stupid.’ He raised an eyebrow, ‘feel free to go, once you’ve finished.’ 

Seb knew a dismissal when he heard one. He finished the rest of his drink and took his leave. 

***  
‘Heading off already Arthur?’ Fliss, his sister in law, caught him tugging on his coat in the hallway.

‘I’m afraid so,’ he kissed her cheek, ‘Father will want a drink and a chat before we turn in, and I’ll be seeing you both at lunch tomorrow!’ 

‘Oh,’ she frowned a little, ‘i thought we might come over in the evening, as it’s our first Christmas in our own house...’

‘Nonsense Fliss!’ Arthur laughed, ‘that won’t do, we’re all banking on you coming for the day.’ He patted her on the shoulder jovially, ‘I’m afraid we always do this sort of thing en masse, something of a family tradition. Anyway,’ he picked up his hat, ‘I’ll see you both later. Cheerio Fliss!’ 

‘Goodnight Arthur,’ Felicity said. 

Arthur hummed a snatch of a carol as he warmed his car’s engine up. It was a pity there wasn’t snow, but that was a once in a blue moon occurrence in Hastings. The night was clear, and he left the window open a crack as he drove along the winding coastal road in order to feel the bracing cold on his face. He didn’t register the van that drew up behind him as more than the glare of another set of lights on the otherwise deserted road. 

Therefore, when they reached a part of the road that veered dangerously close to the edge of the cliffs and the van accelerated, shunting him and his car off the road and over the edge, it all came as a complete surprise. 

The driver of the van stopped and got out, inspected the damage and then reversed back onto the road, turning off when he reached a village and stopping once more by a post-box, into which he dropped a postcard bearing the cheerful legend ‘Greetings from Hastings!’ 

The other side was blank, save for the address of a school in Devon. 

***

The strains of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ were still drifting out of the pub as Seb and Jim walked away, still warm from the fire and a reasonable quantity of alcohol. It had rained that day, and the melted snow was scattered across the paths, reflecting the moonlight here and there. 

Upon the verge where it still lay thick enough to muffle footsteps, Thomas followed them. 

He hadn’t gone into the pub this time, not after the warning, soft and venomous, that James had whispered in his ear when they had last met. But he was desperate, the last time he’d gone home they’d turned over his flat for god’s sake, and he was sure the elegant secretary who’d just joined his department had been watching his movements a little too sharply. 

They were drawing away from him, so he walked a little faster, hoping that the rustle of his footsteps in the snow wouldn’t be heard over their conversation. He supposed he was lucky they were talking at all, James hadn’t bothered much when he’d known him, except when he was baiting Tiltman. But now he walked alongside his guard-dog; ex-soldier by the look of him, their heads inclined almost as though... 

Thomas drew in a sharp breath as he watched James shove his companion into a tree and pull his head down for a kiss. 

There was no possible way he could have heard it, he was too far away, safely hidden amongst the trees. But somehow James looked up, and though his face was in shadow, Thomas could feel the weight of his gaze on his face. The other man looked up too, only a fraction later than James and his face was lit up by the moonlight, making it easy for Thomas to see the way his expression changed from surprise, to chagrin, before settling on a curious, threatening blankness. 

‘Shit,’ the man said, ‘looks like I’m caught up in this mess too.’ And James, for some reason Thomas could not fathom, smiled, wide and triumphantly. 

Thomas ran.

**Author's Note:**

> -Captain Moran: Along with other fic-writers, I have demoted Moran to a captain’s rank because he’s too young to be a colonel. 
> 
> -France and Germany Star: The medal for gallantry awarded for soldiers serving in European during WWII
> 
> -Greats: The term used to describe the Classics course at the University of Oxford. (Only die-hard traditionalists use it now - most people just call it Classics.)


End file.
